Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“Glenn!” Mac yelled again, this time pointing in front of him like I was a dog.
Now, what Mac didn’t know was that this particular maneuver, the one where one person ordered another person to get over there next to them, had been one of my father’s go-to commands. He never asked, simply demanded, so that fast, I bristled. My scowl surprised him, his expression told me so, but I didn’t remain there, instead choosing to return to where Juju was standing with the dogs, drinking water and having some hay that had been put out for her. As usual, she wasn’t tied, which had surprised many of the hands who walked by her, both those from the Red and those from the dude ranch. Some horses would stay, but it could never be counted on. With her, though, I knew. She wouldn’t leave me for anything.
Walking by Zach and some of the others, I heard him telling the story of the last time I went bull riding. It had not been one of my finer moments. Since my name was still on the list for my father’s ranch, when we had to compete in the annual rodeo, I had to go.
Two years before, Stef had been at the rodeo with me when I’d broken my wrist, but the year after, I broke the same wrist, three ribs, and my nose. It was sheer luck that my legs hadn’t been smashed when I was trampled, but the enormous, heavy hooves had missed me by inches. No one mentioned that part, not even Zach, and hearing everyone laugh, again, like they all hadn’t done it enough the first time once they knew I would live, was another reminder that I didn’t belong in their company anymore. As if I ever did.
“Don’t tease ole Glenn, y’all,” Zach cackled. “He’s sensitive.”
I picked up speed, and by the time I made it to Juju, I could have spit nails. The look I got from her, though, like where the hell was her treat, made me even more pissed that I forgot to grab her an apple.
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
Of course, she did what she always did and turned her back on me.
“Oh, come on,” I whined.
When I walked around in front of her, she turned her head like I was some lowly peasant and she was the queen.
“Fine,” I grumbled, going into my saddlebag and fishing out a granola bar. As soon as I ripped open the foil, her ears perked up, and she turned around to face me. “You’re spoiled, you know that?”
She did the thing where it looked like she lifted an eyebrow at me before bumping me with her head, doing the whole bitey, grabby, give-it-to-me-now thing. I chuckled as she delicately took the entire thing, chewed a couple of times, and swallowed it. She was lucky I had one more, or I would’ve been really annoyed about going hungry. I had skipped lunch because it was so close to breakfast, and now I was a bit peckish.
“Can I eat this one?” I asked her.
It was like she shrugged, and I realized how tired I was. My horse was basically talking to me. Good Lord.
I petted her, hung on her neck, and she let me like she always did before blowing air softly into my face. It was gentle, the way she always was with me, and I wasn’t surprised when she nuzzled my chest for a moment, ending with her head resting on my shoulder. The affection she showed me, along with her possessiveness, like the way she tried to take a bite out of me if I ever rode another horse, were just some of the many reasons I took her with me when I left the White Ash.
She was beautiful, all black except for a white pattern on her forehead that was cataloged as a star, but to me, it always looked more like a skull. When she was born, for whatever reason, her mother had taken an immediate dislike to her and, in fact, tried to kill her by biting and kicking at her with her back legs. We separated them immediately, and I was tasked with keeping the foal alive.
Her mother, Voodoo, was a pure Arabian purchased to breed with my father’s Arabian stallion, Hamza, whom he’d traded land for three years earlier. Rayland Holloway loved Arabians, but there were so many top breeders in Texas already that it was hard for him to find a good mare. When he finally did, unfortunately, Voodoo wouldn’t have any part of Hamza, and the artificial insemination route had been unsuccessful. The first time didn’t take, and the second she miscarried, which the vet thought was because she was overly stressed by the whole process. The third time they were ready to try, one of the new hands put her in the wrong stall, and instead of running into Hamza’s corral, she went in with Medallion, my father’s Foundation Quarter Horse. From what happened after that, it was clear that Voodoo did not dislike stallions as everyone had assumed; she just had no interest in Hamza. Medallion she liked just fine, and so my father ended up with Juju, who was a mix and not pure anything. No one was all that worried about Juju when she was born. If she didn’t make it, it was okay; my father was going to try again with the two purebreds anyway. But when her mama didn’t want her, I was the first one in the stall, picking her up, cuddling her and carrying her away, and I got attached good and hard.